Monday, May 14, 2001
Alan had three alarm clocks go off at 5:21 a.m. (10:21 p.m. DFW time for sleep-deprivation-calculation purposes.) It normally took us 10 minutes to walk to the métro. With souvenir-filled luggage it took 25 minutes. A very nice Parisian helped me when my luggage and my limbs got caught in the métro turnstile...I know how a rotisserie chicken feels! We had to change métro lines THREE times. What changing lines means: Up the Stairs – Walk Over the Métro Line Below You – Down the Stairs – Walk Under the Métro Line Above You – Up the Stairs – Walk – Walk – Stumble – Lather – Rinse – Repeat (emphasis on lather when luggage is involved). It took one hour to reach Gare du Nord, where a Parisian saw we were confused and pointed us in the right direction. So rude.
Porte de St-Ouen Formule 1 is the worst place to stay regarding Charles de Gaulle Airport transport. It’s not the first choice for other reasons, either. Either way, St-Denis Formule 1 is the only way to go.
We arrived for our 3:20 a.m. (Sleep Deprivation Time) flight at 1 a.m. The 3:20 a.m. SDT flight didn’t take off until 5:42 a.m. SDT. Three hours of that we spent walking and gawking; finding chocolatey ways of using up our last 100F; sampling our first drinkable yogurt; thanking our lucky stars we weren’t flying Algerian Airlines; and visiting with a St. Louisian who’s working on his theology doctorate in London.
We had to wake Mom and Dad at 4 a.m. to tell them the flight schedule shuffle. They’d have been on their way to DFW by the time we could call them (at a human hour) from St. Louis. I’m glad they love us. Or at least I hope they still do. 4 a.m. phone calls are grounds for excommunication in my world.
Well,
vacation is nearly over now. Time to pack up our guide books. Alan had a
“Rick Steves Paris 2001.” I gave it a fake cover titled “Architecture in
Modern City-Planning” in French. 
My
“Eyewitness Paris” guide was camouflaged as “L'Acanthus dans la sculpture
monumentale de l'antiquité à la Renaissance (The Acanthus Leaf in Monumental
Sculpture from Antiquity to the Renaissance)”. Non-tourist but nothing that
would incite interest either. It is my staunch belief when one is obviously
a tourist even from a distance, one may not be treated as well as a possible
local.
In-flight entertainment included the diet-themed episode of “Third Rock From The Sun” where Dick goes to a weight-loss support group called “Fat Losers” (I howled. I mean I HOWLED. I fell halfway into the aisle. I laughed until my face hurt.); and “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?”
When we arrived in St. Louis around 2:30 p.m. we had to claim our luggage and take it through customs. When Alan reached for our largest piece the baggage handler yelped “Man! Don’t take THAT one! I can’t believe how heavy that thang is!”* Alan took it anyway while the man and I grinned at each other. “Man! What DID you pack in that thang!” he asked me. I scrinched up my face and gave him my best “Ain’t I cute” shrug. Customs asked if we had any food with us and if we’d visited a farm and sent us off to re-check our baggage. The handler was waiting with a pal. He pointed at said luggage and told his pal “Don’t touch that one!” Then to me: “What DID you pack in that thang?!” Again the “Ain’t I cute” shrug.
[*I insist on pointing out that when we arrive in Europe we have only carry-on luggage packed VERY light. I cannot recommend this enough. The return with all our spoils is when things are large and weighty.]
Alan asked the boarding agent the ridiculous question of “When will the flight arrive in Dallas?” The agent responded “The crystal ball is in the shop.”
When we did arrive in Dallas, Nikki and Kilory ran to greet us squealing all the way. Now that’s a homecoming! Dad and Mom took us all to Jack-in-the-Box for dinner. There, Nikki saw a root beer float ad and asked if she could have “a root beer float without the alcohol.” I don’t know which impressed my Dad more: that she read the sign by herself (she reads more impressive stuff than that, actually) or that she wanted it sans-alcohol; regardless, he tells everyone he knows the story.
Back home, in my own bed, I’d been asleep a few minutes before Dolly Spells-Chastain called to tell me that Wes’s mom, Lillian Stoops, had died that day. Yep. The vacation was over. Back to reality in a big way.
I’ll be happy as long as my reality contains root beer floats without the alcohol.
Epilogue:
The twins were impressed by the stinky cheese we brought them. You can see
how impressed they are! For a hoot check out "The
Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Fairy Tales."* The twins
agreed with the assessments of stinky cheese found therein.
*If you were to buy it through this link or through the one at disaster-area.org, part of the proceeds go to the Wes Stoops Memorial Scholarship.
Within a week of coming home to recover financially from this adventure one of my top four favorite college professors announced he was doing a "Culture and Protestant Reformation Tour" for two weeks in September at a reasonable price. It hasn't been a dream of Alan's to go to Europe with Dr. Sicher but it has been a LONGTIME DREAM of mine. So since we CAN JUST afford JUST ONE tour ticket...Mom and I are going to France, Switzerland, Germany, and Austria in September.
Aren't you excited!?!
You have ANOTHER one of these to look forward to...
Be afraid.
Be very afraid.
[The "Culture and Protestant Reformation Tour" was to depart September 13, 2001. And you all know what happened September 11. Thousands of dreams, more important than mine, went up in smoke that day...]
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